


Sarah Connor Never Had to Put Up With This Shit

by electricchicken



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: M/M, Origin Stories, hedge fund managers do it better than you, who would win in a fight...?, zombie cockblocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:39:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricchicken/pseuds/electricchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because "come with me if you want to live" is only the beginning of the story.<br/>(Spoilers for Radio Mode including the iOS 1.4/Android 1.2 update)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Takes Us a While to Get Any Traction

**Author's Note:**

> After getting wickedly Jossed by the Radio Abel update, what's a fanfic writer to do but try again? Thus, Radio Abel Roadshow 2.0. If we get up to 5.0, I think I deserve some sort of medal.
> 
> Thanks as usual to the Zombies, Run! Tumblr fandom who make me not feel like a crazy person for writing this much, this often about a fitness app.

The tree branch hits the zombie's head with a sharp crack and breaks clean in half, a shower of leaves catching in matted pink hair. The creature stumbles to the right in a half-credible two step, pauses for a moment, then lurches for him again.

Jack bites back a curse, and stabs at it with what's left. The branch broke jagged at least. Better luck than the last one. If he ducks in just slightly too close for comfort, crosses his fingers and squints, he might be able to manage—

The wood pierces straight through the zombie's left eye, and the thing goes down in a moaning, twitching heap. Jack doesn't bother trying to retrieve the stick.

"This isn't working," he calls up the path, where Eugene is beating another rave kid about the head and shoulders with a length of pipe. Christ, he'd never expected to be jealous of anyone because of a length of pipe.

"Hold on," Eugene snaps, and hauls back and whacks the zomb in the head with everything he's got. That finally seems to do the trick, but when he turns back to Jack it's with a grimace. "You've got... I don't want to know what that is on your face."

Jack scrubs at his cheeks with the back of a hand, and stares down at the smear of — he's not sure what the exact term for it is, but 'eye jelly' works well enough in a pinch. "Oh, man, that's foul."

"Every time I think you can't get filthier, you find new ways," Eugene says with a shake of his head, turning away and starting up the path again. Jack isn't sure he knows where he's going, but two days into this mess it's already clear that standing still is a great way to get eaten.

"Right, one: I was at an outdoor concert without running water and two: it's not my fault that rotting corpses have a splatter problem," he protests, jogging after him to keep up. Eugene's got a long stride, and has apparently never walked anywhere with a shorter person before, because Jack cannot get him to slow his pace, no matter how much he complains.

"Then stop stabbing them."

"Oh, thanks for that," he folds his arms across his chest and glares at Eugene's back. "Like to see you try to fight the monsters off with a stick. Actually, let's do that. You take bits of forest debris, I get the pipe. Then we'll see whose got problems."

"Pass," he stops walking though, until Jack draws level with him, and when he starts again it's with slow, ambling steps that look like they're driving him mad to take. "You're right though. We need to find you a weapon. And moist towelettes."

"Yeah, that joke's not getting old at all, thanks," he tries to envision the country ahead of them, but geography's not his strong suit and he wasn't, perhaps, at his most observant when he wandered off into the woods in the first place. Honestly, he has no idea what direction they're going in at this point. "There's got to be a town eventually, right?"

"You look like you've got an idea," Eugene glances over at him, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. "Why does that worry me?"

"Douche," Jack says airily, and checks him with his shoulder before squeezing past him on the trail.

\---

"I just want the record to show that I have reservations about this," Eugene mutters in his ear, as they're leaning around the corner of some little petrol station-slash-grocery, staring down the high street of some town Jack didn't quite catch the name of.

"That's funny somehow, isn't it?" Jack says back, pitching his voice low. "Reservations? Cause of the whole food writer thing."

"When you get us eaten, I'll be sure to remember how ironic it is."

Out on the street, an elderly woman shambles past, cardigan in disarray and support hose falling down round her ankles. Oh, yeah, and half her face is missing, also, but Jack's doing his level best to ignore that. There's at least half a dozen zombs between them and the hardware store, who knows how many in the side streets. And this was his bright idea, but he's starting to admit that Eugene has a point.

"You remember that bit in _Shaun of the Dead_ where everyone pretends to be a zomb?" he starts.

"Not real life," Eugene hisses back.

"Spoilsport," he looks around them. Across the way, there's a computer repair place, some sort of ladies clothing shop, a pub. "There's got to be something round here."

"We should just move on," Eugene's starting to fidget now, Jack can feel him moving behind him. "It's not safe here."

"Yeah, because going back into the woods unarmed with no food is a great plan." He sighs, and rakes a hand through his hair. The hair resists. Ugh. "There must be at least bottled water in here. Maybe they've got an axe or something in back?"

Eugene glances up at the building, like he hasn't realized what they've been hiding behind. "Better," he allows. "How do we get in?"

"Though I saw a service door right," Jack starts, swinging round and nearly colliding with the length of pipe Eugene's still clutching to his chest. And, yeah, the initial tripping and falling incident is already a bit funny in retrospect, but they have got to stop bumping into each other like this. "Sorry."

"Oh, yeah," Eugene rocks back a step, then shifts to his right at the same moment Jack tries to go to his left.

"No, wait, that's not going to," he steps to the right, and Eugene goes with him, like some awful moment out of a romantic comedy that Jack is too smelly and too tired and too freaked out to appreciate properly just now. "Okay, just stop moving. I'm going around you."

"What makes you think the door's even going to be—" Eugene starts, as the metal door practically flies open at Jack's first tug. "Should have seen that coming."

"Man with the weapon goes first," Jack says, waving him in with a bow.

\---

The store's quiet and dark on the inside, a windowless wall between them and the front of house. Jack squeezes his eyes shut, trying to adjust to the dim faster, and strains his ears for any moaning.

"Shit, hold this," Eugene jams the pipe into his hands, rummaging through his pack, and comes up with a little plastic torch. The beam doesn't give off much light, but if he squints Jack can see the outlines of boxes, a set of double doors that must lead into the shop floor and what looks a break room area.

No zombs, though. Somehow he's not surprised. If it were him, he'd be out the door at the first sign of the walking dead too, minimum wage paycheque be damned.

There's a backpack abandoned in the staff area, and for the next while they don't say much of anything to each other, except to veto the occasional food choice — "seriously, anything but peas" — as they move through the store proper, clearing out whole shelves of stock.

He's trying to work out a way to jam another tin of beans into the bag without wrecking the zip when Eugene says, "hey, what do you think is in here?"

When Jack looks up, he's staring at another door up near the front entryway, nearly hidden by the soft drink racks, with a pin pad set into the wall outside it.

"Dunno," he shrugs. "Probably just offices, isn't it? Not like raiding the safe's going to help much."

"No, but there could be something," he tugs on the door handle, and it swings open just as easily as all the others. Lock must've gone when the power went out. Eugene turns to raise his eyebrows at him, "well, might as well—"

Jack misses the rest of whatever he's saying, because there's something moving in the gloom and he may not be able to smell himself, but he can still smell whatever that thing is.

"Zombie," Jack blurts. "Zombie, zombie, big ol' zombie right behind you."

Eugene throws himself backwards just as the thing comes tottering through the doorway, hands out and grasping at air. It's really quite well preserved. Suit and tie barely wrinkled, face still in one piece. Only a gaping bite wound on one outstretched arm gives any sign of what might have happened. Well, that and the vacant, brain dead expression and gray pallor and the moaning and, oh yeah, the fact that it's lurching at Eugene like he's dinner.

"Pipe," Eugene barks out. "You've got the pipe."

Oh, shit. Right.

"Coming," he lets the bag drop and casts around. He set it down — where? Crap. By the tinned veg? Maybe near the water cooler. "Uh, just, hold on a tick, okay?"

"No, no holding," Eugene's back on his feet now, scrambling away. He gets a little wire bin full of lollipops between him and the zomb and shoves it at it, hard. Which, great idea in theory, but the thing moves all of five inches. "Jack, seriously, _now_."

The pipe's not with the veg, or the fruit. Could he have left it by frozen foods?

Think, Holden.

It comes back to him in a flash, then. Setting it down on a table in the break room, while he dumped a wallet and too-small change of clothes out of the pack and, yeah, no, he's pretty sure he hasn't had it since.

The zombie's getting closer. Eugene ducks away again, behind another display. Stacked boxes of laundry soap, and those do go flying when he shoves them.

"Okay, I've got an idea," Jack yells. Which, yes, technically a lie. But he'll think of something. Right now. Hopefully. Oh god.

"Feel free to share at any time," Eugene hollers back.

Okay, okay, he can do this. There's cans to his left, cans to his right. Might be able to throw them, but his aim's not solid enough that there isn't a risk of braining Eugene instead. What else? Cigarettes and alcohol behind the counter, mop and pail in the corner, more laundry soap, fire extinguisher the size of a toddler, rack of greeting cards, biscuits.

Wait.

"Can you get him on the ground?"

"Maybe," Eugene's plan of attack appears to have devolved into 'throw everything at hand on the ground and hope it trips.' Well, Jack's heard worse. "Oh, come on, I bet his co-ordination wasn't this good when he was _alive_."

"Hey," he comes around the shelves at a sprint, nearly slides right past the mop. "Catch."

And Jack's not much of an athlete, but he's seen enough historical action films to get the basics of spear chucking. The mop goes sailing across the store in a gorgeous arc. It does land about 10 feet wide of Eugene's position, but if they're grading for effort he's got to get at least half marks.

"Catch?" it's a bit impressive that Eugene manages to sound that sarcastic when there's still a zombie bearing down on him.

"Well, fetch, then."

Eugene glances over his shoulder just long enough to give him a look that plainly says _I will murder you later_ , and dives across the floor. Which is a bit melodramatic, in Jack's opinion. All the stuff littering the store floor may not have tripped up the zombie, but it does seem to have slowed it down. No need to go somersaulting. A flat-out run surely would have sufficed.

The fire extinguisher is just sitting on the ground near the cash registers, which Jack suspects is some sort of workplace safety violation. He grabs at it, and, yeah, okay, first instinct was right there. Thing is heavy.

Perfect.

He gets it up and turns around just in time to see Eugene smack the zombie in the face with the mop head, and has to bite at the inside of his cheek because, God, there are just too many jokes.

The zomb staggers, and Eugene whacks it again, at the knees this time. It lurches to the side, straight into one of the boxes of detergent, and goes down in a white, powdery heap.

At which point Jack jogs over as calmly and gracefully as he can when hauling a fire extinguisher larger than a spaniel, and drops the canister on its head.

When it connects, there's a distinct crunching noise. Next to him, he thinks he hears Eugene gag.

"So," Jack says, trying to shake the worst of the zombie brains and skull bits off his trainers. "I think that went well."

\---

After that, it sort of feels like they have to look in the office.

Jack was right, there's not much in there, beyond an outdated computer, desk chair and a couple filing cabinets. It's not even a nice looking room. Bare concrete walls and dirty laminate flooring. He would say 'I told you so,' but Eugene looks like he's got a bit of an eye twitch going, and Jack would rather they didn't end up going at it themselves just now. One fight to the death per day, if he can help it.

He's just about to walk back out when Eugene's light glances off something tucked behind one of the cabinets.

"Wait, go back."

"Back to what?" Ooh, someone still sounds grumpy.

"Behind that thing," he jabs a finger in the right direction, and the beam follows him back glancing over a broad, flat blade, a little nicked along one edge. A rubber grip handle, too, not as worn as the rest of it. Might have been changed recently. Jack drops to his knees and maybe, kind of, slightly squeals with delight.

"Is that," Eugene groans. "Oh my God I'm trapped in the Cornetto Trilogy. First zombies, then next thing little old ladies are going to start shooting at me in the village square. This is my life now."

"I'm going to call you W.G.," Jack tells the cricket bat seriously, pulling it to his chest and smoothing a hand along the ridge at the back. "Welcome to the team. Come with us if you want—"

Eugene smacks him on the back of the head.


	2. Superman vs. Batman

Eugene frowns at the map, then turns it sideways. Another frown, bit of a brow crinkle, and now he's holding it upside-down.

"Fuck it," he says, very deliberately, and crumples the whole thing into a ball.

Jack waits 'til he's done, then holds out the tin of fruit he's been eating for lunch. At least, he thinks it's lunch time. "Mandarin slice?"

"No thanks," Eugene glares down at the map ball, then tosses it over his shoulder, sending it skittering off into the underbrush.

"So," Jack says, after a pause. "Who do you think would win in a fight, a zombie or Santa Claus?"

"What." It doesn't even come out like a question. "I don't know if you noticed but we're—"

"Lost in the woods in the middle of the zombie apocalypse?" Jack suggests. "Yeah, that one slipped by me somehow. Not like we've been bashing in the heads of perfectly friendly strangers who just want to put their teeth on our faces for the last four days or anything."

Eugene mutters something he doesn't catch, but has the good grace to look sheepish.

"Way I see it, doesn't much matter where we go, does it?" he continues. "If the whole country's like this, isn't the most important thing to avoid everyone else as much as possible? So long as we do that, we're grand."

"So instead of strategizing and coming up with a plan, you think we should—"

"Figure out whether Santa could take a zombie in a fight, yeah," Jack says.

Eugene puts out a hand, and it takes a second for him to figure out what he's asking for and pass over the fruit. He pops an orange segment into his mouth, jaw working slowly.

"What's Santa got for a weapon?"

"Big, magic candy cane?" Jack suggests. "Sack of toys for like a billion children? That's gotta be enough to crush a zomb."

"I don't know," Eugene says, spearing another orange with a plastic fork and looking thoughtful. "It just seems like Santa would have an awful lot of target area."

\---

"Ursula the sea witch or Aquaman?" Jack manages to get out, just before W.G. thumps off the side of the zombie's head. This one's done up in hiking gear, _Walking Guide to England_ still sticking out of the pocket of its shirt. Jack knew there was a reason he'd never much fancied the outdoors.

"What does Aquaman do again?" Eugene asks, and whacks the zombie tourist across the back with his pipe, sending it reeling forward.

"Talks to fish, I think," Jack says, bringing W.G. down in front of the creature's knees and sending it flying. "And dolphins and stuff? I don't know."

"Ursula," Eugene jogs back a step, getting out of the way of the falling zomb. "Can't talk to fish if you don't have a voice. You want to finish him off, or should I?"

"I got the last one. He's all yours," Jack steps back, giving him some space. "But, the problem is, I think it's like a psychic fish connection thing. Doesn't matter if he can sing love songs if he can talk to them with his brain."

"Still Ursula," Eugene steps around a grasping hand, and brings the pipe down on its head, hard. "Ugh. There — but she can still turn him into a little kelp... creature? What were those things?"

"Haven't the faintest," he looks up from where he's wiping W.G. off in the grass, and there's thick, brown blood beading in Eugene's eyebrow. "Oh, you've got some stuff on you."

Eugene makes a face, swiping at his cheek, and one of the blood droplets starts to drip downward with the motion. And Jack's not really thinking, it's just faster to pull his sleeve over his hand and lean across the zomb to swipe it away himself.

When he pulls back, Eugene's got a funny expression on his face.

"Um, sorry," he looks down at the ground but, yeah, dead rotting corpse down there so he settles for staring at a tree instead. "Didn't want it getting in your eye."

"Thanks," Eugene clears his throat and scuffs a foot against the ground, then asks, a little hesitant, "The Great Mouse Detective or Cumberbatch's Sherlock?"

"John Watson," Jack says, not missing a beat. "Like Sherlock could set a mouse trap."

When he glances over, Eugene's grinning at him. So that's probably alright, then.

\---

Eugene squints down at the array of tinned food and utensils Jack's laid out on the barn floor. "I still don't get it."

"I think at this point you're trying not to get it," Jack accuses. "It's cricket. What's there to understand?"

"It's two people running between sticks—"

"Wickets," Jack corrects.

"How is this entertaining?"

"Wow," he folds his arms and sits back on his heels. "I'm sorry not all of us like strapping knives to our feet and knocking each other about on the hockey pitch—"

"Rink."

"—but I think several million fans in Britain, India and Africa might disagree with you on this," he pauses. "Assuming any of them are still alive, of course."

"I'm sorry, but any game where 'silly mid on' is an actual fielding position is a little hard to take seriously," Eugene says, raising his hands in a don't-shoot-the-messenger pose.

"You're uncultured," Jack says. "That's what it is. You lack culture."

"At least in hockey the positions all stay the same all the time," Eugene reaches across the mock playing field and gives him a bit of a shove. "Goaltender, defenseman... other defenseman. Other guys. Though people mostly go to those games for the beer."

"You," Jack says with mounting delight, "don't actually know anything about ice hockey, do you?"

"I know it's played on ice," he swats at Jack again when he starts cackling. "Guy with stick puts puck in net. What else is there?"

"You're such a nerd," he's laughing almost too hard to get it out, ends up upending both of the bottles of water he's been using for wickets when he reaches over to poke Eugene back. "This is amazing. I am in no way the least cool person in this team up."

"Shut up," Eugene's laughing now too, shoving him away. "Just because I'm not a jock like you—"

It's right about then something starts moving in the hay loft.

\---

"You've got to give her credit, it was a good idea in theory," Jack says, watching the zombie thrash about, trying to stand up in the maybe four-foot-tall loft space. "Of course, given that it looks like she's only got one arm let, I think the damage might've already been done."

"Should we do something about it?" Eugene says, eyes glued to the loft as well. "So long as she stays up there we're safe but, I feel sort of bad watching this."

"Not to mention the moaning's going to keep us up all night," Jack agrees. "How?"

"If one of us climbs the ladder," Eugene starts, but he doesn't sound that excited about it even as he's saying it.

Jack squints up at the zomb, and the poor thing isn't even facing the right way round. As he watches, it slips on something, hay probably, and goes back down in a heap. He cups a hand to his mouth and calls, "here zombie, zombie, zombie. C'mere, girl. Got some nice, lovely brains for you. Yeah, just turn round and—"

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to help it," Jack shrugs. "Otherwise how are we going to get it down here so we can bash its head in?"

"Always the Good Samaritan," Eugene deadpans.

"Shut it, I think it's working," the zombie's looking in their direction, anyway. "Here girl, come down with us and I'll let you chew on my mate's head for a bit, won't that be nice? He's already a bit soft up there, so it'll be nice and tender for you — ow, no need to use elbows."

Eugene rolls his eyes, and then calls, "Yeah, nice zombie. Come on down here. Do you like redheads? I hear they've got a great flavour, really nice with a little cracked pepper and some red wine reduction."

"I don't care if you do write about food for a living," Jack mutters. "You pulled that out too easily."

"Just keep calling," he points at the loft, where the zombie's hanging out a gap in the rails, groaning at them, arms flailing into space.

"Aw, yeah, good zombie," he tries to give it an extra enthusiastic go this time. "Just a bit closer, girl. There you go, there you go, there you. Oh."

The zombie crawls straight out the hayloft without even trying to grab at the ladder. The crash it makes hitting the floor is actually kind of amazing. It doesn't try to get up again.

"Good plan," Eugene says, clapping Jack on the shoulder. "You can take that side of the barn tonight."

\---

"Are you really going to argue with me on this?" Jack says, frowning at a line of bandages in the pharmacy. Looks like some other survivors have been here ahead of them. None of the good stuff's left, just those little ones meant for nothing more serious than a paper cut. Hardly any painkillers either. "I mean, I appreciate the classics, but the daleks are not as scary as the angels. Period. Full stop. End of argument."

"You didn't ask me who was scarier," Eugene tosses something at him over one of the shelves, and Jack barely catches it. "You said, what villain's the best? Daleks."

"Okay, fine then, I'll rephrase," Jack glances down at the plastic container in his hands. "Oh, deodorant. Thanks. Ha. Ha. Glad to see that's still funny."

"They wiggle when they're angry," Eugene says, innocent. "The daleks, I mean. It's strangely charming. Unlike your particular musk."

"Musk?"

"Stench?"

"Yeah, let's go with musk," he grumbles, and slips the antiperspirant into his pack when Eugene's not looking. "Since you are weird about _Doctor Who_ I'm going to regret asking this, but if you had to pick a Doctor--"

"Nine," Eugene says before he can finish. "Do you see any antiseptic on your side? I can never find anything in these places."

"You would say Nine," there are some bottles of rubbing alcohol on the shelf to his left and he grabs the biggest he can find and lobs it over. "Catch."

"Thanks."

"It's not even surprising," Jack continues. "You would like the prickly one. Like attracts like and all that."

"I don't know if anyone's told you, but you're so good with the compliments when you want to be," Eugene says, trying to cram the bottle into his bag. "Who's your favourite Doctor and why am I wrong this time?"

"Tom Baker, number Four. I used to have a copy of his scarf when I was little. My mum knit it for me. I don't think I took it off all winter," _or summer, or fall, or the next winter after that_ , he doesn't add. Thing had been filled with holes and runs and generally more dirt-coloured than anything else, but it had still been hanging in his apartment when he left for the weekend. He'll probably never see it again, now.

Weird, how it's always the little things that get to him in this.

"Hey," Eugene reaches over the shelves to snap his fingers in his face. "You okay?"

"Yeah, sorry," he ducks down, pretends he's looking for something on one of the lower shelves. And, oh, there's a couple rolls of gauze, hiding behind the other bandages. Great. "I'll give you one thing about Nine, though. I'd go along with him in a heartbeat if it meant getting some quality time with Captain Jack."

When he stands back up Eugene hasn't moved an inch, and is giving him a sharp look.

"He's well fit," Jack says, and then his brain catches up with the rest of him. "Oh. It wasn't obvious?"

He doesn't think there's a freak out on the horizon. Canada's had same-sex marriage practically forever, and Eugene's a journalist — well, sort of, if you count 'exciting developments in the field of bread baskets' as journalism — and he doesn't really seem the type to get all weird about having a gay guy for a travel companion. But, Jack finds he's holding his breath anyway.

"It wasn't," Eugene's ears are turning red at the tips. That's odd.

There's this awkward beat of silence between them, and Jack's trying to come up with a joke, another question, something he can say to make this be over and done with.

And then Eugene clears his throat, ducks his head to the side and says, "Why do you think I picked Nine, anyway?"

"Because you're both curmudgeonly and—" he stops. "I'm missing something here aren't I?"

"Say what you will, man looks good in a leather jacket," Eugene says, and turns on his heel and starts walking down the aisle away from him.

Oh.

Well.

That's interesting.

"No, no hold up," Jack fumbles his pack closed and rounds the shelves, trying to catch up to him without breaking into an actual run. "Seriously? You don't move the needle on the gaydar, like, at all."

Eugene comes to a halt in front of a wall of herbal supplements. Though 'halt' might be putting it lightly. He practically freezes. Jack can't even tell if he's still breathing. Only the blush spreading down the back of his neck gives any sign there's still something going on in there. "I get that a lot."

"Good," Jack says, just to say something. "Because my gaydar's usually fantastic."

Eugene sort of chuckles, and the tension eases some. "What do you think people take rose hips for?"

"Rosier... hips?" he suggests, and yeah. That's just bad. Even he can tell. "C'mon, let's get out of here before any zombs wander in looking for medical advice."

"What kind of medical advice does a zombie ask for?" he's still not quite meeting Jack's eyes, but they fall into step as they walk out of the store and that's not the worst start.

"Dietary stuff? Like, how many servings of brains do I need to eat a day to stay active and only mildly decomposed?" Jack thinks about it. "Do you think eating vegetarians counts as getting your leafy greens?"

"I worry about what goes on in your brain," Eugene says, and knocks an arm against his as they head for the doors.

Yeah, Jack thinks.

They're going to be fine.


	3. Zed’s Dead, Baby. Zed’s Dead

They clamber over a low stone fence, into what looks like some sort of pasture, and collapse.

“Did we lose them?” Jack manages between gulps of air, hand pressed hard to his side where the ache that’s been forming for the last several miles is taking on new life.

Eugene scrubs his hands over his face, shoving sweat-damp hair back from his eyes. “Think so.”

“Need to check,” he pants out. “Before I pass out. Let’s never do that again, yeah?”

He doesn't even know how it happened. One minute, they were on some deserted country road debating the finer points of, who even knows, 80s New Wave or something. The next, twenty zombie farm workers bearing down on them. Jack’s never run so fast, so long in his life.

“I’ll do it,” Eugene pushes back up onto his knees and sneaks a glance over the fence. “I think we lost them.”

Jack expects him to sit down then, but he just leans his forehead against the wall and stays where he is, arms slack at his sides, breath coming in the same wrecked, ragged gasps as his own.

“Hey, Eugene, you okay?”

“If I move, I’m going to fall over,” he laughs, low and raspy. “Thought I was in better shape than this.”

“Yeah, well, the Zombie Marathon’s been more than a match for quite a few contestants in its time,” Jack says, shrugging his pack off to look for water. The bottle’s warm in his hand, but he chugs half of it in a single go without meaning to. “The most important thing is that you finished.”

“At least we didn't go for the triathlon,” Eugene says, and Jack reaches over and presses the water bottle into his palm, curling his fingers around the plastic when he doesn't do so on his own. “Oh, thanks.”

He sits back. Eugene still doesn't move.

“I will catch you if you fall over,” Jack sighs. “Just drink the damn water.”

“Getting there, getting there,” he pushes himself away from the wall with one shaky arm, sits back on his heels and knocks back what’s left of the bottle almost as quickly as Jack had done, tilting his head back and letting the liquid pour into his mouth.

Jack looks away, and tries to ignore the heat rising in his face.

The problem is. Well, the problem is lots of things, starting with the end of civilization and a major biological catastrophe and ending with a serious lack of clean socks. But this particular problem has a Canadian accent and a weird sense of humour and a bad habit of disagreeing with him about vital points in popular culture.

And this problem wasn't a problem a couple of days ago. But ever since Eugene told him he’s into blokes Jack can’t get it out of his head. Them. Can’t get the idea of them out of his head.

Because it would be good, wouldn’t it?

Setting aside the fact that they could be the only two queer men left in the whole of Britain (kind of unlikely, but not completely out of the question given the ridiculous state of the country these days), and the fact that Jack hasn’t gotten laid since like February of last year, they’d be good. Together. Maybe.

Also seriously, it’s been nearly a year. Man has needs, and all.

Next to him, there’s a thump. Eugene’s sprawled out on his back in the grass, arms folded behind his head, eyes closed. There are sweat stains on his shirt and a smudge of dirt on his neck and Jack knows for a fact he hasn’t brushed his teeth in at least a week and — and he can’t even tell if the sight of him makes his heart clench because of real feelings, or because this might be the last man in the UK he has any shot at sleeping with.

Happens all the same, though.

“We should get going,” he says, finally, after he’s dragged his eyes away in favour of staring at the sky. “Find somewhere to spend the night and all.”

“What’s wrong with the farmhouse?”

He blinks. “What?”

Eugene raises a hand, not bothering to open his eyes, and points off to his left where there’s a squat, stone building standing three fields over.

“Oh. Yeah. That works,” Jack says.

—-

They barely get the front door open before the figure comes hurtling at them from across the room, howling at the top of its lungs. Jack and Eugene share a quick glance, and dive in opposite directions, just a few seconds before a garden fork cuts through the air where their midsections used to be.

“Not zombies,” Jack shouts, trying to roll back to his feet. “For one, zombies can’t use doorknobs.”

“We’re friends,” Eugene tries, in a much more reasonable tone, getting up off the ground with his hands raised like they’re in some sort of police standoff.

“What do you want?” that accent is really damn posh, Jack thinks, for someone wielding a gardening implement like that.

“Just looking for somewhere to spend the night,” Eugene tries to take a step closer to the door, then jumps back when the fork swishes towards him again. “We have our own supplies, no one wants to harm you. We just need some place to stay until the sun comes up.”

“Why should I trust you?” the man looks a bit wild-eyed and his hair’s all mussed, but he’s still wearing the same blue blazer he must have run out of the office in when the outbreak first began. Points for that.

“Well, have you seen us?” Jack pipes up, rolling his eyes at Eugene when the pitchfork swings his way. “Seriously, do we look like we would be at all capable as bandits?”

“Thanks,” Eugene says, in a bit of a huff.

“We’ll take whatever room’s the hardest to defend, and you can have some of our SPAM,” Jack offers. “Now would you please take that thing out of my face? I can see bits of hair on it, it’s disgusting.”

The man frowns at them, thinking.

“What have you got to eat other than SPAM?” he asks.

“Now this is a man after my own heart,” Jack says, ignoring Eugene’s eye roll.

—-

Zack Anderson turns out to be some sort of London financial type. Either that or something to do with law. They’ve been talking all evening and Jack’s not actually sure.

They block off the windows using blankets and towels, take the batteries out of the smoke detectors, then light a fire in a garbage can in the main room and spread their sleeping bags out around it. Feels a bit like he imagines summer camp would, except indoors and without the hot dogs and singalongs.

“You went camping, right?” he asks Eugene. “You’re Canadian, that’s a thing Canadians do, isn’t it? Commune with nature? Purple mountain majesty and fruited plains and all that?”

“That’s from the American national anthem,” Eugene points out, staring into the fire. He’s lying on his stomach, chin pillowed on his arms, and Jack can see the flames reflected in his pupils, flickering.

“Close enough,” he says, just for the face it’ll make him pull. “C’mon, you did, right? Bet you had loads of wholesome outdoor fun. Do you know any campfire songs?”

“Is he always like this?” Zack asks from the other side of the can.

“This is well behaved,” Eugene says, and reaches over to flick Jack’s shoulder. “No singing. We know how the zombs feel about your voice.”

“If only there were a way to get the undead to buy records,” Jack sighs. “I could go multi-platinum.”

Zack is staring at them like they’ve both grown extra heads. He’s been doing that a lot tonight. Not much for banter, apparently.

“So where are you and the garden fork off to anyway?” Jack asks, only partly to be nice. They haven’t had much contact with the outside world since everyone else at the rave got eaten. Maybe there’s news.

“There’s a military base near Swindon,” Zack says. “Thought if there was any place to wait out the apocalypse, it would be the one with all the guns.”

“Are we anywhere near there?” They’ve been walking blind for ages now. Jack had sort of gotten it into his head they were going more towards Bournemouth.

“Only a few days away, according to the GPS.” He says it like it’s nothing, but both Jack and Eugene sit up almost in sync.

“You’ve got GPS?”

“Took it out of my car,” he sounds proud now. “Battery operated, bluetooth enabled. So long as the satellites hold, I’ll always know where I am.”

Jack steals a glance at Eugene, only to find he’s already being stared at. They squint at each other for a moment, then nod.

“Zack,” Eugene says, smooth as anything. “Do you want some company on the road?”

—-

“Do you think the Gray Flu would affect the Ninja Turtles?” Jack asks, taking an idle, one-handed swing at a shrub with W.G.

“They’re turtles,” Eugene says. “So no.”

“Yeah, but they’re mutant turtles. Who knows what’s in the ooze? Maybe they’ve got human DNA now somehow,” up ahead of them, Zack’s got his head bent low over the GPS. “Hey, Anderson, back me up?”

Zack grinds to a stop, whirls around to stare at them with the same crazy-eyed look Jack remembers from their first meeting last night. “Do you two ever shut up?”

“Woah,” Eugene says, stepping in front of Jack and raising his hands. “Calm down.”

“I am attempting to get us back to civilization,” Zack's trying to talk under his breath, but his voice is going all squeaky. It shouldn’t be funny, not with the way his hands have gone white-knuckle around the garden fork and that little box that is their only guide out here, but yeah, it kind of is. “We’re in the middle of a bloody war zone. It’s chaos out here. And you two keep talking about children’s television.”

“Would you prefer we moved on to films?” Jack asks, and jumps back when Zack lunges at him.

“Okay, okay, everyone cool it,” Eugene grabs at Zack’s arms, holding the two of them apart. “We’ll keep it quiet. It’s fine.”

“I need you lot to take this seriously,” Zack hisses, still not willing to speak at full volume, apparently. “You want jokes, go somewhere else.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” Eugene says again, glancing over at Jack. “We’ll be quiet. It’s fine. Okay everyone? Fine.”

—-

It’s not fine.

Over the next two days they avoid two small packs and a lone sprinter, kill nearly a dozen stray shamblers between them, and lose four hours hiding in a boot and shoe shop on the outskirts of a village when the biggest swarm Jack’s ever seen starts massing just down the road.

(They never do find out what’s attracted it there, and Jack’s glad that they can’t tell, and that no one’s in the mood to go searching in that direction once something else catches the zombies’ attention.)

And it is all of it, every last second, terrifying and awkward in equal measure. Jack hasn’t used up this much adrenaline since the earliest days of the outbreak, when he still wasn’t totally sure of Eugene’s name and the last of the marijuana and Red Bull cocktail from the rave was still leeching out of his pores. But with no distractions what else is there to think about but how close some of those zombie hands have come to grasping at stray bits of his companions’ clothing, how his last swing with W.G. glanced off a skull funny and could have got them all killed?

There’s only one other thing running through his head, and that’s no help either. Eugene’s nearly caught him staring more than once already, and a couple times when he’s glanced over their eyes have met and it’s just been weird.

They’re walking side-by-side, sleeping a couple feet apart at night. They haven’t been out of sight of each other in days. Jack shouldn’t feel like he misses him. Shouldn’t have this bone-deep need to ask him what Pokemon he identifies with the most, or what Batman villain would have the most team-up value against the undead.

There are a couple zombs still wandering round outside the little roadside pub they find for the night, and for a second it’s like old times. Jack goes left, Eugene goes right. Bat cracks, pipe rings, undead hit the ground. Couple of crunching noises and they’re good to go.

Eugene puts a hand out and they bump fists. “Nicely done, Mr. Holden.”

“Could say the same, Mr. Woods.”

He can’t look away, then. Neither of them do, and they’re just standing there, grinning at each other like idiots. And Jack has this sudden urge to tell Eugene that he’d probably be a Bulbasaur, if they were Pokemon — but he’s only basing that on the original 150, because who can keep up with the rest of those things?

“There’s another three inside,” Zack calls out, the sound his garden fork makes as it punctures the stomach of one of the zombs doing as much to break the mood as anything. “Coming out now, rather. Bit of help?”

“I need to tell you about Pokemon,” Jack blurts.

“Later?” It’s a little sad that Eugene doesn’t bat an eye at that. Sad and perfect.

“Deal,” he nods, and readies W.G. for another go.

—-

They drag the bodies away from the entryway, and Jack’s in the process of choosing which tins will make up dinner for the night when Eugene says, “Zack, you’re bleeding.”

The scrape’s maybe a couple inches long, not even that deep. But the hair that’s stuck to it is blonde. Like one of the zombs outside. Like the other hairs clinging to Zack’s pitchfork, still dripping blood and brain matter in one corner.

“Must have nicked it,” Zack says, quiet and ever so calm. Blank. “During the cleanup. I must have scraped it—”

He slumps down to the floor, straight backed and unseeing, puts his head in his hands. Jack sees his shoulders heave, hears the wet inhale of breath, but he never says much again, after that.

He’s dead within four hours.

When he reanimates, they put him down together.

—-

It’s dark by then, is the thing.

Nowhere to go, except one room over from Zack’s body, which neither of them can quite manage to take outside. The kitchen of the pub isn’t comfortable, but it’s blocked off enough that they could start a fire if they wanted.

Right now, though, any light feels like too much.

They sit with their backs against the butcher’s block, not ready to bother with sleeping bags. Jack’s not sure he’d be able to sleep tonight if he tried. Or that he’d want to. Around them, the dark is still and warm, almost comforting. He feels a hand bump his, weaves his fingers with Eugene’s, and is a little glad neither of their expressions show.

“You wanted to tell me something?”

“Stupid stuff,” Jack says, and cringes to think of it. Video games and action heroes and kiddie shows when people — real people — are out there dying. Dead already. God, he’s an idiot.

“I think,” Eugene starts, then sighs and squeezes Jack’s hand. “I could use a little stupid.”

He didn’t even like Zack. Genuinely disliked him, even. Guy was an uptight, upper class wanker of the first order and travelling with him had been a special kind of hell he’s happy to be clear of. They barely knew each other beyond first and last names. Jack’s got no idea if he had family, kids, a wife, a girlfriend, pets, anything. They weren’t friends and they were barely acquaintances.

Didn’t mean he wanted him dead, though. Sure as anything didn’t mean he deserved to go like that.

“Can we just sit here for a bit?” he asks. “Quiet, like?”

Eugene doesn’t say anything. Just leans closer, until their shoulders touch and rubs his thumb along the back of Jack’s hand.

They stay like that most of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Zack. I'd only ever head the story about him once when I wrote this, and didn't realize he was supposed to travel with the boys for weeks. But, uh, two days isn't a bad run either, right?


	4. The Fire Swamp

The forest is different from the others.

Up to now, it's been leaves and logs underfoot, rabbit runs or no trails at all. Now, they're walking on grass gone a bit ragged but still showing signs of mowing. The trees are all evenly spaced, canopy of green filtering the watery sunlight overhead. Jack can hear birds singing somewhere, and every so often a squirrel scampers across the road in front of them. First time in ages he's seen this much wildlife.

They haven't run into a zomb all day. Any other time, he might find it peaceful. Today, Jack's doesn't feel like he has much of an opinion on anything.

"What do you think this place is?" Eugene asks. "Private estate? Park?"

Jack shrugs.

"Maybe there's a manor house around here somewhere," Eugene pitches his voice into what might be the worst British accent known to man. "Lord and Lady Zombington will now be receiving visitors. For dinner."

Jack kicks at a loose stone on the path and jams his hands in his pockets.

There's a sigh, and out the corner of his eye he sees Eugene's shoulders slump.

Another mile of silence and the trees start to thin. Ahead of them, Jack can see long, low beds of flowers, all pink and yellow and untouched by any of this. Front lawn and a massive driveway, and a house set up on a rise that's big enough to hold the entire Zombington line, stretching back to the Norman conquest. From this angle, they can see signs of a car park around the back, a glossy, too-modern sign out front. Some kind of fancy hotel, no doubt.

They've come to a stop on the trail, both of them staring. Above them, the building is silent and dark, and Jack feels a chill run down his back.

"Think there's anyone in there?" Eugene asks.

"Let's not find out," Jack grabs at his wrist and hauls him off the path, back under the trees and away. Doesn't matter if they're doubling back on themselves, he needs to be clear of that house now, before the image of a hundred locked hotel room doors holding back a hundred zombie guests implants in his mind permanently.

"Hey," Eugene says, a little sharp. "Jack, hey."

"I've got a bad feeling, okay?" he snaps back. "That alright with you? I'm not interested, I don't care. If there's anyone alive in there, they're better off without us to deal with."

"You're twisting my shoulder," and when he looks back, Eugene's got one arm pulled across his chest, elbow locked, wrist still fixed in Jack's grip. He lets it drop immediately, trying to ignore the look being thrown his way, all wary and worried. Nothing to worry about here. He's got all his bits in place. There's no virus in his veins. Of all the people out there to fret over just now, he ought to be last on the list.

"Sorry," he manages, and starts walking again.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Eugene calls after him.

"Don't want you to say anything."

Eugene will start following him eventually. Of course he will. What else is there to do? Any second now, Jack's going to hear the crunch of gravel, the thud of his footsteps.

"It was an accident." There's still no sound of movement. "It sucks, I get it. But it's not your fault."

"That's not," Jack starts, too loud. Because a screaming match in the zombie wilds is a fantastic idea. Good show everyone. He turns with a sigh, and Eugene's still standing where he left him, rubbing at his elbow. "That isn't the point and you know it."

"I have no idea what the point is. I don't. That things are awful? Congrats, you noticed."

"Well, what do you want me to do, then?" his voice is rising again. Jack can hear how frantic he sounds and doesn't know how to stop it. "Just go skipping through the forest like it's all talking animals and Disney songs? Keep acting like it's the Jack and Eugene comedy hour out here when someone died right in front of us because they forgot to towel off their gardening tools? What can I do?"

"You can stop taking it out on me," Eugene shouts back. They're not anywhere that the noise would echo, but in the calm around them Jack's sure he can hear it reverberate anyway. At this point, they probably deserve to get eaten. And Eugene, he just sort of deflates. Like someone's let the air out of him. "You know what? Forget it. I don't want to talk to you either."

"Hey," he tries, but it barely comes out at all.

"Whatever," Eugene stalks past him. The gap in between the trees is narrow, but rather than shoulder Jack out of the way he veers to the left, steps over exposed roots, and keeps going without so much as a look back.

Jack doesn't bother trying to hold his ground.

\---

By the time the sun's starting to set, they're well and properly lost. There's a steady stream of rain coming through the forest canopy, and Jack's sure they've passed some of these trees three times over. The GPS is somewhere in the bottom of Eugene's pack, but every time he thinks of suggesting they take it out he looks over and sees tight shoulders and a closed-off expression and loses his nerve.

The light's gone blue and night's nearly fully on them when Eugene grinds to a stop and says, "we're going to have to camp out."

"Sure," Jack says, and lets his bag drop to the ground with a thump. "Here?"

"Why not," Eugene says and plunks himself down, unzipping his own bag and rummaging through it. "For dinner, SPAM or more SPAM?"

"More SPAM," the ground is muddy, and Jack wishes they'd decided to continue this somewhere with stumps to sit on, at least. But whatever. It's not like a little more dirt is going to do much one way or the other.

"Here," he holds the package out, still staring down into the bag. Like it's going to kill him, somehow, if they make eye contact. Jack takes the tin, then has to talk himself out of chucking it at Eugene's stupid head. On the one hand, he'd be out a dinner. But on the other, it would mean not eating SPAM. Again.

They eat in silence. Of course.

The moon's out now. Mostly hidden behind clouds, no help at all on the forest floor. Jack can hardly see anything, his own hands barely more than faint shapes moving in the darkness.

In retrospect, they should have planned this better. Or at all. Gotten to higher ground, gone somewhere with at least one less angle of approach. Nothing much for it now, though. Wandering around in the forest at midnight isn't quite the lark it used to be.

So long as he stays awake all night, there is a slim possibility nothing will show up and eat his head. Seems doable. What could possibly go wrong.

"Jack?" Eugene whispers, and he flinches so hard he nearly goes over in a heap.

"What?" he hisses back.

"Just checking."

This is ridiculous.

"Where are you?" he waves an arm around, trying to remember what the area looked like when there was still more light.

"Over here."

The side of his hand collides with something soft, and Eugene grunts. Well, he's on the right track. He flattens his palm against him, trying to figure out which part of him he's collided with. Fabric, not skin, no elbow or knee joints.

"Not that I'm complaining, but why are you groping my stomach?"

Ah, that answers that. There's a very good chance he'll be embarrassed about this later. Probably for the rest of his natural life.

"Just hold still, alright?" With one hand still on Eugene, there's no good way to get up and move forward. He settles for getting to his knees and half shuffling, half crawling around him, until they're sitting with their backs pressed together. "There. No need to give me a heart attack in the middle of the night, now. If you squint for shamblers in that direction, I'll do this side."

"Oh. Good call," Eugene leans back against him a bit, and there's still like a 98 per cent chance they're going to get ravaged by zombie hordes, but it does make Jack feel a little better.

"I'm not sorry for being upset. But could we go back to liking each other?" he says, still pitching his voice low. The forest is quiet around them, and he hopes it's because there's not much going on round here this time of night, and not because the undead have learned how to tiptoe. "This whole thing seemed like it was going better when we liked each other."

Eugene doesn't say anything long enough that Jack's considering crawling back to his old spot, retrieving the SPAM can and chucking it at his stupid head after all.

"Is there something we should be doing?" is what he asks, finally. Still whispered, but the curtness from earlier is gone. He sounds like him again.

"Doing?" he's not — Jack's not sure what he's asking, actually.

"I know you said we should just keep moving but, are you sure there's not somewhere you want to go?" Eugene shrugs, and he feels the movement against his back. "You must have family, friends. Should we be looking for them? Do you know where they were, before this?"

The questions catches Jack off guard more than he'd like to admit. The last few days aside, they've talked almost nonstop since they met. It's just never been about themselves.

He could list everything he knows about Eugene's old life in bullet points, count them off on one hand. Canadian, living in — but not from — Toronto (he'd been really firm on that point, for some reason), fancypants food and travel writer, bisexual. Oh, and a Libra.

Run through like that, the list is even less impressive than he would've expected.

"My mum and dad are in London. Got a sister up north. Edinburgh," it feels weird to even talk about it, and he's caught between the urge to shut up and the urge to tell Eugene absolutely every single trivial, insignificant fact he can come up with. "Jillian — that's her name — she moved up there straight out of school. Think she was hoping to find a handsome Scot to whisk her off to his ancestral castle or something."

"Wait," Eugene interrupts. "Your parents really named you Jack and Jill?"

Jack makes a face into the darkness. "That would be the first thing you pounce on, wouldn't it?"

"Sorry," he says, and doesn't sound it. "Your sister, what's she do?"

"She is — was — is," he falters, and the rest of the words catch in his throat, barely make it out at all. "In nursing. She was a nurse."

Eugene lets out a loud, slow breath. "Shit."

"Hadn't really put it together before now," he admits, knitting his hands together in his lap, trying to ignore the hot, pricking feeling starting behind his eyes. "It's just, we're all the way down here and. Maybe it's different up there? Maybe they got it sorted, before things got so bad."

"Maybe," but the way he says it, it's a hollow comfort.

"You came from London, right?" he asks, even though he knows he shouldn't. There's a reason he's been avoiding this line of questioning, avoiding even going near this in his own head. "Must be a right mess there. Can't imagine there's much of anything left."

Eugene doesn't answer, and Jack's sort of grateful.

"Guess I really am stuck following you around," he says, and he wants it to sound cheerful but it comes out hiccuped, right on the edge of a sniffle, and he can't be fooling anyone.

"Well," Eugene says, slowly. "Better you than the zombs, I guess."

Jack stops wiping at his eyes just long enough to elbow him in the ribs.


	5. Cut, Print It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Harry Potter and the Hedge Fund Managers

They're somewhere past Reading when the GPS batteries finally go dead.

By now, they're starting to see people. Mostly in glimpses — a blurry shape ducking behind a building, eyes peering out from between boarded-up windows, a few figures in the distance walking too smoothly to be shamblers. Still a relief, though, to know they're not the only ones out here. If there are other survivors then, well, maybe the odds aren't quite as stacked as Jack's been thinking.

More than half the places they stay now, there are signs someone's already been through. Burnt-out fires, packets and tins from past meals (Jack's not sure whether to be jealous or worried for the previous campers in one house who appear to have eaten nothing but crisps and lager), even the occasional scrap of clothing too gory or dirty to keep wearing.

So this time, when they're sneaking in the back door of some dingy little chip shop, chosen mostly for its lack of anything resembling a window, it's not so surprising when the thing flies open and some guy's pointing a shotgun at Eugene's face.

"Not zombies," Jack says, quickly. "Or bandits. Or — or raconteurs."

"Wait, what do you think raconteur means?" Eugene asks, surprisingly calm for someone who's looking down double barrels.

"Like, a bad person? Strong-arming people for their hard earned tinned food and bottled water?"

"Racketeer, dummy."

"We're not that either," Jack adds, trying to see past the gun and get a better look at who's on the other end of the thing. "So, if you'd mind not shooting my friend in the face..."

The gun wavers a bit, lowering until the end is level with Eugene's kneecaps instead. Not much of an improvement, but better than nothing. "What do you want?"

"We'll, if you're still doing curry chips here—" Jack starts, before he can help himself. "I mean, actually, just trying to find a place to sleep tonight. Got any room? We don't bite."

Eugene groans. "Not helping."

"Sorry, sorry, right," he flashes his most winning smile at the shadowy figure in the doorway. "We've got extra medical kit, if you want to do a swap. And we don't snore. Well, I don't snore anyway."

"That's a lie."

"Now who's not helping, Eugene?"

"You know what?" the shadowy gunman says, pitching his voice to talk over them. "You just wait here. I'm gonna go have a chat with the mates, see what they say."

The door bangs shut again, and Eugene lets out a relieved sigh and slumps against the wall, covering his face with his hands. Damn, he's got a way better poker face than Jack expected.

"Hey, Eugene?"

"Yeah?"

"How do we know whoever's in there isn't a bandit? Or a racketeer?"

Eugene thinks about it for a moment. "They would have shot us already."

"Lucky for us, then," Jack says, deciding it might be time to do a little wall-slumping of his own.

\---

The chip shop smells terrible inside. Open fryers full of old fat do not get better with several weeks neglect, it turns out. Nor do frozen foods benefit from a lack of electricity.

"You're regretting this now, I think," Anil says to Jack, who's spent the last five minutes trying to breathe through his sleeve.

There's three of them altogether. Anil, Shaan and Jeffrey, they introduce themselves as. They are, of course, hedge fund managers. He's starting to wonder if anyone outside of the London financial district survived the outbreak. Would it kill the universe to throw a barista or a shop clerk across their path?

Jack's still not sure which of them had the shotgun, now peeking out of one of their backpacks. Actually, backpack is too weak a term for it. These things are ridiculous, with about a million straps and carabiners and zippers, and each one probably holds more kit than he and Eugene are carrying between them.

It's not just the packs, either. The three of them look like they're straight out of an advert for some upscale ecotourism thing. Solar-powered headlamps, waterproof trousers and little down vests, sleeping bags that clearly weren't stolen from a department store children's section. Not, of course, that Jack has any reason to know what they'd look like if they had been.

They've got the old fire-in-a-rubbish-bin thing going, but there's a little metal grill across the top with a frying pan balanced on it. And as bad as this place smells Jack's stomach still rumbles at the thought of hot food. SPAM has to be better served warm, right?

"Anyone else want tea?" Jeffrey asks, pulling a tin kettle from another recess in one of the bags.

"Oh God, yes, please," Jack says, and shoots a glance at Eugene that he hopes is interpreted as 'can we stay forever?'

He gets an eye roll in return. Typical.

"Where you two headed?" Shaan asks. Unlike the other two, he's got his bag pulled as far away from them as he can, and he's watching Eugene with narrowed eyes and crossed arms. And suddenly Jack has a prime suspect for who was wielding the gun earlier.

"North," Eugene says.

"Just north?" Shaan's mouth tightens at the corners.

"Well, you know," Jack interjects, "I hear Scotland's lovely this time of year. Lots of hills. Tartan. Oat biscuits. Things of that nature. Why, where are you lot off to?"

"Shaan's parents have a hunting lodge past Northampton," Jeffery says. "Supposed to be brilliant. Generators, solar panels, loads of guns and ammo, the whole thing. Should be able to last it out 'til the end of this up there."

"Jeff, man, you've got to stop telling random strangers that," Anil sighs. "No offence guys."

"Course not," Jack says, waving it off. "Random and strange, that's us."

"Sometimes I am amazed no one's shot us yet," Eugene mutters.

"Still plenty of time to change that," Jack says, and gives Shaan the biggest, toothiest grin he can muster, which unsurprisingly goes unreturned.

\---

"No, trust me, the beer can thing works," Eugene is saying, and Jack makes a face and turns away from the conversation. He and Jeffery have been talking pigeon cooking techniques all morning, and it's hard to say whether Jack's more disgusted or hungry at this point.

"Behind you," someone snaps, and he turns and bashes W.G. straight into an open, rotting mouth. A few teeth go flying.

Yeah, okay, he's definitely well into the disgusted camp now.

They hadn't really all meant to set off together when they pulled out of the chip shop a few nights ago, but after two hours of awkwardly trying to ignore each other on the road they'd given up and joined forces. And while their party of five seems to attract more zombie trouble than the dynamic duo setup, it's the best fed and rested Jack's been this whole apocalypse.

"If you could build some sort of rock enclosure, would that make up for the lack of a grill?" Jeff calls over the head of the zombie he's beating with some sort of retractable baton. Seriously, the kit on these guys is unreal. Pack of six zombs, and they've mowed through them like nothing.

Jack's newly toothless zomb is on the ground now, but there's another few shambling up the road, coming from the village they've been skirting all morning for precisely this reason. They stick around much longer, they're going to have a swarm to deal with.

"Stop talking about food," Jack hisses. "You're attracting them."

"He's right," Shaan's further up the road than the rest of them, his own zombie more of a smear on the pavement now. "Jeff, you and your new boyfriend can compare recipes later. Off the road, now, before they pack up. _Run._ "

He doesn't shout, but his voice is sharp and serious, and enough to get them all moving. Ahead of him, Jack can see Eugene and Jeffery running along side-by-side, heads bent in. Probably talking spice rubs now. Ugh.

"He didn't mean it like that," Anil says, from just behind Jack's left shoulder, nearly sending him stumbling over his own feet. The hedgie's jogging steadily, arms pumping, feet hitting the dirt with soft thumps. Doesn't even look like it's an effort for him. And these guys are impressive as hell but Jack, whose lungs are already starting to burn, is getting to hate them a little bit.

"Didn't mean what like what?" he bites out, sneaking a glance over his shoulder. The zombs have stumbled off the road in their direction, but they're gaining ground. No sprinters among this lot, thank God.

"That boyfriend crack," Anil shoots a worried glance at him. "Shaan's a bit of a prick, but he's not a homophobe. Ah, does your head always look like that when you run?"

"Look like what?" Jack pants, opting to ignore the first bit of that because he has bigger things to worry about than whether some survivalist banker is uncomfortable with the fact that he has sex with men — like being chased by zombies, for starters. "What's wrong with my head?"

"It looks like it's going to pop off," he waves a hand in front of his face, shrugs. "You're all red."

"Yeah, well, not everyone runs the Ironman for a spot of fun at the weekend," Jack grumbles.

"It's just jogging," Anil shrugs again. "Mostly we climb mountains, though. We did Kilimanjaro this summer."

Jack doesn't even know what to do with that information. Try to forget it immediately, before it makes him fall to the ground in a sobbing heap, maybe. Though that does sound nice, right about now.

Another glance back, and he can't see anything behind them, minus the village itself. "Guys, guys. I think we're clear."

The hedgies all look a bit disappointed. Eugene mostly looks a bit winded. Jack is oh so thankful the universe threw a normal human being at him back in the woods all those weeks ago, instead of some track and field explorer weirdo type. Their new companions are great and all, but over a long enough time span he'll probably have to murder them all in their sleep.

"Water?" Eugene offers, coming to a stop next to Jack. The hedgies are still moving, but slow enough now that there's no worry about getting left behind.

"You're the greatest," Jack says, and snatches the bottle out of his hand. And maybe Shaan's comment is nagging at him a bit more than he thought because in between gulps he can't help but say, "shouldn't you be up with your new fellow talking marinades?"

"He walks too fast," he's wiping at his face with the hem of his shirt and Jack is not staring at his stomach as he pulls it up. Obviously.

"And, um," Eugene adds, and Jack snaps his eyes back up to his face. "Jeff said I was supposed to tell you he's no home-wrecker."

It takes a couple seconds for that to sink in, and Eugene's become very interested in the ground by the time it clicks. Huh. He's going to have to think about that, once the blood stops pounding at his temples.

"Did I ever tell you that you'd make a brilliant Bulbasaur?" he says in a rush and God, sometimes he hates his brain. Hates. It.

"That's — okay? What?"

"Never mind," the hedgies are well away from them now and that's as good an excuse to nip this in the bud as any. "C'mon, we'd best catch up."

Eugene shakes his head, but falls into step anyway. And if they happen to bump hips and hands all the way back to the rest of the group from walking too close, well, it's not entirely Jack's fault.

Yeah. Definitely things to think about.

\---

Three hours after he started, Shaan is still puking. Jack has never been happier in his life to have missed out on candy.

From the bathroom in back, they can hear faint retching sounds every ten minutes or so. Anil disappeared somewhere in that direction as well about an hour ago, with a bottle of water and a towel. Jefferey, meanwhile, appears to have laughed himself into a near-coma and is sprawled next to the fire, head tipped back, snoring like a jackhammer.

They've parked their own bags a bit further back from the fire, but still close enough to get what light there is. Eugene's on his back, squinting up into what appears to be a wild game cookbook. Jack, who is not at all equipped to deal with that, has spent the last several minutes flipping through an old copy of _Hello!_ magazine, finding out which celebs looked a bit under the weather at the last awards gathering held before the planet went to shit.

"If you were being chased by, like, a famous zombie, what would you do?" he asks.

"Do you mean a zombie that's famous for being undead, or a celebrity who's turned into a zombie?"

"The second," he cradles his chin in his hands, trying to imagine it. "You know, you're out one day foraging for tinned beans, and then suddenly there's one of the Beckhams, foraging for you."

"Hit them in the head with a pipe," Eugene says, letting the cookbook rest opened on his chest. "It's not like you can ask for an autograph."

"But it'd be weird, right?" Jack presses. "Can you imagine, like, zombie Alan Rickman? I'd probably die from fright before he got with five feet of me."

"Alan Rickman must be 80 by now. He'd have to crawl at you — oh, no, that's terrifying. You're right."

"As usual," Jack says, and ducks when Eugene reaches over to cuff him on the side of the head. "Ooh, speaking of which, who do you think would win in a fight: zombie Harry Potter or zombie Voldemort?"

"Isn't Voldemort already a zombie, sort of?" Eugene sets the book aside, and rolls over so they're lying face-to-face. "That's a big advantage."

"D'you think wizards can eve get Gray Flu?" he asks. "Bet even if they do there's some fancy potion you can drink and there you go, all better. Or at least a sweet zombie killing spell. _Aderva zomberta_ or something."

"Aderva—" Eugene snorts, and buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. "I can't believe. You did not just say that."

"If I had a wand, you'd be singing a different tune," Jack mutters.

"If you had a wand, I would have left you to deal with the zombie ravers on your own."

"Oh, that's supportive. You're a real comfort, you know that? A rock in hard times, that's you."

Eugene gives him something that might be a mock bow, though it's hard to tell with the lying down and the sleeping bag. "At your service."

"Prick," Jack says, maybe a bit too fond, and gets a grin in return.

That shouldn't be what does it, but just — God, forget everything he's been worried about. It's not just the apocalypse talking. It is good. This is. They are. Jack feels loose and happy down in his bones, and right now he can't come up with a reason not to try for it. Can't remember why he hasn't already.

"Who do you think would win in a fight," Eugene says, pitching his voice low, almost a murmur. "Shaan, or the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man?"

And so maybe Jack's laughing a bit too hard for it, when he leans over and kisses him. But that's alright, isn't it? That's them.

When he pulls back, Eugene's eyes are closed and his lips are just ever so slightly parted. And he'd meant to stop at one, but he can't help ducking back in, teasing his mouth open with a slip of tongue. He'd like to see anyone with the self control to do otherwise. Eugene sort of sighs into his mouth, brings a hand up to cup Jack's cheek. It's — it's really nice, is what it is. Slow and lazy, like they've done this before hundreds of times.

"This good?" Jack whispers, kissing at his bottom lip, trying to give him time to answer before he does more than that.

"Huh? Yeah," this time Eugene's the one to lean in first, pressing his lips to the corner of Jack's mouth, his cheek, his temple, just under his ear. "It — yeah."

There's not much of him Jack can get his hands on above the sleeping bag, but he makes a go of it anyway. Runs his palms along the line of Eugene's neck, the jut of a shoulder blade, up through the hair at the nape of his neck. He feels solid and warm and good, and Jack's a little freaked, actually, at how much he likes this. Making out like teenagers on the bloody floor, and it's brilliant.

A door bangs somewhere in the shop, and they pull apart slowly. And he doesn't care about getting caught, really, but there's three other people here who probably don't have any particular desire to watch them snog.

Eugene's looking at him with this wide, goofy smile that he would make fun of except he's fairly sure he's wearing one himself. His hand's still on Jack's cheek, thumb stroking along his lower lip, and the idea comes in a flash.

"There's a non-fiction area in the back corner," Jack whispers. "Can't hardly see if from the rest of the shop."

On the floor, Jeff sort of twitches as they sneak not-altogether-quietly past him. But if he's awake he's nice enough to pretend otherwise.

\---

"Oi, you two getting up or what?"

Something bounces off the side of Jack's head, and he opens his eyes in time to see Jeffery tear another page out of the copy of _Hello!_ he'd abandoned on the floor last night and crumple it into a ball. The paper pings off his shoulder and he groans and tries to throw his hands up, but one of his arms is caught under something heavy and warm and—

"What?" Eugene mutters, groggy, into Jack's ear.

Oh right.

He doesn't remember falling asleep in the non-fiction section, but when he looks up it's all books about pop stars and political biographies as far as he can see. A glance down, and he's watching Eugene rub at his eyes. His hair's in a state, and his shirt's rucked up halfway and Jack's missing hand is shoved deep into his back pocket — and well and truly on its way to losing all sensation. It might be the most excellent morning visual he's had in ages, and the pins and needles that go shooting up his arm are worth it for one more chance to squeeze Eugene's arse.

"I am still standing here," Jeff says, and lobs another bit of paper at them.

"Right, right," Jack grumbles. They untangle themselves slowly, and he'd wondered if Eugene would be embarrassed about all this, but mostly he just looks smug.

"Something we can help you with?" he drawls, and Jack isn't sure if he wants to elbow him or propose.

"God, you two are going to be like this all day, aren't you," Jeff rolls his eyes, but he's sort of smiling, too. "Shaan's back to being human-coloured, so looks like we can move on today. Anil's making breakfast."

Eugene does something with his hand that looks disturbingly like a finger gun. But it can't possibly be, because then Jack will have to smack him. And they've got a nice thing going right now. He'd hate to disturb it.

"Be there in a second," he says, instead. Jeff shakes his head at them again and turns to go back onto the main floor of the shop, then stops and glances back over his shoulder at the last second.

"We all survive this," he says, "the boys and I expect invites to the wedding."

Jack and Eugene flip him off in unison.

"So, not exactly on that subject," he starts, once Jeff's finally cleared off. "But I was thinking, maybe we wanted to make that whole kissing bit into more of an every day thing? I'd be for it."

Eugene just rolls his eyes, and leans in to press their lips together. And he may be wrong most of the time about music and TV and a pretty large portion of Western cinema — not to mention the idea that cooked pigeon might ever be appetizing — but Jack thinks that this time Eugene's definitely answered the question right.


	6. Rule #1: Cardio

Eugene's back hits the rack hard, and the whole display shudders. They jerk away, but the damage is already done, and the little wire shelving unit goes toppling over, spilling candy across the tile floor of the deserted petrol station they're holed up in for the night.

"Ignore it," Eugene murmurs, mouth mapping a trail down Jack's neck and over bare shoulder. They're both shirtless and Jack's trying desperately to remember how zippers work, and mostly failing, and getting close to just shoving his hand down the front of Eugene's trousers without bothering to undo them first.

"Ignore what?" he flattens a palm against Eugene's stomach, fingertips skimming just under the waist of his jeans. They're a bit tight, but he can probably make this work, and it'll still be easier than that damn zip.

"Oh, wait, let me," his hands knock against Jack's as he fumbles the button open, and Jack should wait for him to finish, but that extra bit of room is really all he needs. His fingers find the outline of Eugene's cock through his boxes and there's a low moan in his ear, nails digging into his back and somewhere else in the building—

Somewhere else, there's a bang and another moan that sounds nothing at all like the one he's just heard.

Eugene's head thumps down against his shoulder. "Maybe it's the wind."

"We checked the building," Jack says, frantically, and presses in with the flat of his hand. God, he's so hard already and all they've done is a bit of kissing. That is — that is just the best thing ever. "It's nothing? Right? We can just keep going and—"

Another thump, louder than the first. It's coming from the direction of the little deli sort of area in the station's back corner. And the light's getting dim, but it's still good enough that if Jack squints, he can see the door rattle on its hinges as the next three bangs come in rapid fire succession.

"Maybe it'll go away," Eugene suggests, hips canting forward into Jack's hand, breath coming in hot, sticky gasps against his neck. "If we just ignore it."

"I think it's in the fridge," Jack says, and this is just not fair or funny. "Behind the sandwich counter, that big metal cooler we saw, I think it's in there. Must have gotten sick of cold cuts?"

"Get the bat," Eugene slumps against him, all the urgency gone out of him at once, and Jack does his best to extract his hand from his trousers without any unnecessary touching.

"We'll just get it sorted, then we can pick back up, right?" his shirt's under a pile of Cadbury bars, and Jack swats them away with only half the frustration he feels. "Just a couple minutes, and we get right back to it."

"Yeah," Eugene sighs, and sets to tugging his jeans back into place. "Sure we will."

\---

It's been about a week now since they parted ways with the hedgies and to say they've been having some bad luck would be like calling the gray flu a minor bug.

Of the six nights previous to this one they've spent three outdoors — two in the rain. They spent another bunking with a couple families in a garden shed with barely room for half the people it was holding, and another in a nice country pub that would've been a great spot for a little romance had they not found zombs locked in the coat room, front parlour and master bedroom. Bash enough skulls, Jack's learned, and even the promise of a night on a real mattress isn't enough to put a guy in the mood.

And it's been ages now (well, nearly three weeks) since he first kissed Eugene. It doesn't seem like it should be too much to ask that he also get the opportunity to see him naked, now that they have some privacy again.

The zombie trapped in the refrigerator, however, seems to think otherwise. Whatever they did to set it off, it's really going now, banging itself into the door over and over and moaning all the while. Jack's starting to look forward to killing it, at this point, if only to shut it up.

"Ready?" Eugene's got a hand on the door latch, and Jack nods and raises W.G.

The poor thing never has a chance. Three good smacks, and he's shaking zombie brains off his trainers for the thousandth time. Eugene tosses him a wad of paper towels to clean off the cricket bat, and that's that for that.

"So, if you still want to..." Jack starts, but even as he says it he knows it's a lost cause. "Should we do something about dinner, maybe?"

"Dinner sounds good," Eugene says with another sigh, and kicks the refrigerator door shut.

\---

They spend the next night in an abandoned rail station with so few defenses they may as well be back outside. Words Jack eats the night after that, when they do get stuck outdoors again and — oh, good, more rain.

By the time they set out the next morning they're both soaked through and miserable, and Jack has decided he'd happily never have sex with anyone again ever if the universe would just throw a warm shower in his direction. Or at least a clean towel.

"D'you think it's a sign?" he asks, as they're trudging up the side of a motorway on squishy shoes, leaving a wet trail behind them on the pavement.

"Do I think what's a sign of what?" Eugene bends at the waist and shakes his head back and forth, sending water flying everywhere like some sort of big dog.

"I think the universe wants us to not have sex with each other," Jack says, ducking away from him with a grimace, and trying to wring some of the moisture from his own shirt. "Think about it. The rain, the terrible accommodations, the zombies—"

"Have been here all along," Eugene rolls his eyes at him, and shoves his slightly less soggy hair back off his forehead. "I don't think the universe cares if we sleep together."

"Prove it."

"How?"

"Have sex with me," Jack steps in front of him, blocking his path. "Right here, right now. Show me I'm wrong about this."

"I'm not having sex with you on the side of the highway," Eugene says, with a barely concealed laugh.

Jack folds his arms across his chest and sulks. "Why not?"

"Because a) there are probably zombies around here and b) road rash," he takes a step closer, hands finding Jack's hips as he tilts their foreheads together. "First decent place we find today we'll stop, okay? You're not the only one who wants this."

"And what about the universe?" Jack asks, blinking as some of the water dripping from Eugene's hair nearly hits him in the eye. Seriously, he would trade _internal organs_ for a towel.

"The universe will get over it," Eugene says, and ducks in for a kiss that is too clammy to be entirely effective. Jack returns it anyway.

\---

They walk two hours before the rain starts back up again in a thin, miserable trickle that seems to find the back of Jack's neck and his eyes with pinpoint precision. By the time they stumble across the cottage he can hear his teeth chattering. Or maybe those are Eugene's. They barely bother with a real perimeter check. Just bash in the glass on the decorative window on the front door until Eugene can reach in well enough to flip the deadbolt.

Inside it's a bit dusty and stale. No food in the cupboards, linens stacked in the closet, bed unmade. Some sort of holiday rental thing, maybe, all packed away for the low season. But it's zombie free and, more importantly, dry. And best of all—

"Towels," Jack says, coming back into the main room, and tosses one at Eugene's head. He's crouched over the fireplace, fiddling with something in the grate, and one of the sleeping bags is unzipped and laying flat on the ground already. Wow, they _are_ doing this.

"That might be the greatest thing you've ever said," Eugene says, scrubbing the terrycloth across his face with a groan. "I'm going to start a fire. Give me your clothes and I'll try to hang them over something to dry, okay?"

"Getting right down to business, are we?" Jack says, peeling off his wet tee and trying to ignore the way the cotton's attempting to suction on to his back. "I like that approach. Nice and direct."

Eugene just chuckles at him and shakes his head, but Jack sees how he glances back as he's shucking off his jeans and underpants, which are so plastered to him with water that it's not like they were doing much on the modesty front anyway.

"Tada," Jack holds his arms wide and lets him have a good long look before he goes back to toweling off. "Like what you see?"

"No complaints here," he says it all casual, but the smile Eugene shoots Jack is as loaded as any he's ever seen. This is going to be fun. He can tell already.

"Right, well, let me know when you're ready to return the favour," he's dry enough now that he can sprawl out across the sleeping bag, one arm folded under his head. God, that feels comfy. The floor's not soft and the sleeping bag's always been a bit itchy but after how many weeks of wearing the same clothing, any change is a good one. "If we could get some music in here, we could make a real show out of it."

"In a second," he doesn't see Eugene roll his eyes, but he can pretty well hear it by now. "I'm going to find something for kindling. Try not to start without me?"

"Make it quick," Jack says, "and maybe I won't."

\---

When he opens his eyes next the room is dark, save for the glow of the fire still burning low in the grate. There's a blanket tucked under his chin, an arm wrapped around his waist and a warm body tucked behind his own. And no, no, no this is not happening.

"Gene," he says, shoving the blanket away and trying to twist himself around. "Eugene Woods, wake up this instant."

"Huh?" his hair's dried funny, all stuck up on one side and tumbling into his face on the other, and it would be really adorable if Jack weren't furious with him just now.

"When, exactly," Jack says, trying to refrain from shouting, "did I fall asleep?"

"What?" Eugene yawns and drags a hand over his face. "I don't know. When I was making the fire?"

"And you didn't think to wake me up?" Oh this is not fair. This is colossally unfair. This is the least fair thing that has ever happened to him.

"You looked tired."

"Not tired enough to miss out on sex," he groans and covers his face with his hands. "It's the universe again. Has to be. You didn't believe me, but here we are again. Some higher cosmic power doesn't want us to do it."

"Jack—"

"No use trying to deny it now. I think the signs have been more than clear."

" _Jack_ —"

"Did you ever run over a family of ducklings? Steal from a charity bin? Because my karma's great, so I assume this has to be your fault."

"Jack," Eugene says again, more firmly this time, slipping an arm back around him and tugging him closer. "Come here."

"What," he starts, and then Eugene's flush against him, still all warm and very, very naked. Oh. Oh well, then. "Er, hi."

"Hi," Eugene says back with a laugh (rude) and a little shove that rolls them over so Jack's flat on his back under him (better, better, oh so much better). "Want to show the universe who's boss?"

"God yeah," Jack says, and tugs his head down for a kiss, all slow and open mouthed. Eugene slips a knee between his, rocks his hips forward just a touch and Jack kind of wants to do everything to him right now, but also this, just this, for as long as humanly possible.

It's Eugene who pulls back first, raising himself up on one bent arm to stare down at Jack. "God, you're so..."

"I am, aren't I?" he grins and drags his hands down Eugene's back, pulling them tighter together and rolling up against him. And he's expected at least a bit of a comeback for that, but Eugene's got his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth's gone slack and holy shit Jack might have finally found his off switch. It's probably weird, how hot that is.

He presses a kiss to Eugene's throat, feels him swallow and jerk against him in response, and suddenly this little bit of kissing and touching isn't near enough. Not by half.

Eugene hits the floor with a surprised grunt, and Jack realizes a bit belatedly that he could have given him some warning before flipping them. Though this way is more fun. And there are about a million ideas dancing in Jack's head just now, but when he sits back on his heels it's hard to do anything but stop and take in the site of Eugene all flushed and mussed and come undone and staring up at him like he's never seen anything better.

"Could I," Jack starts. Which is about as far as he gets before losing the plot completely because — because skin. And lots of it. And Jack might need to lick along one of Eugene's collar bones, since it's there and everything. Also, his neck.

"What?" Eugene sounds sort of dazed and he keeps running his hands over Jack's shoulders in these little, random patterns, all the sharp snappy snarkiness gone right out of him. God, if he'd known all it would take to get the last word was a little naked groping, Jack would've jumped him ages and ages earlier.

"I want to—" and, God, there's a lot of things that sentence could end with just now. Though there is one thought in particular that keeps surfacing above the rest. He presses a hand down between their bodies, fingers slipping over the head of Eugene's dick, and pitches his voice low to whisper in his ear. "Let me fuck you?"

"There's condoms in the backpack," Eugene says, surprisingly steady, and hauls Jack's head up to his to press his tongue into his mouth. So that seems like a yes, then.

In addition to the condoms, the pack also contains a never-opened bottle of lube, and Jack cannot fathom when Eugene would've picked that up. Unless it's been in there since before the outbreak, and the whole food writer thing is just a cover for some sort of filthy international sex jaunt. Which Jack supposes he can't complain about, seeing as he's the one getting to do the honours.

And he has thought a lot (like, an absolutely ridiculous amount, to the point where it's probably bordering on some sort of creepy obsession) about what Eugene would be like in bed. Except, he's never imagined it quite like this. In his head, Eugene's always been more like he is the rest of the time. Just a bit too cool for everything.

This is... not that. By the time Jack's rolling the condom on, Eugene is just the best kind of mess under him. Pupils blown and hands wandering and so fucking open for him Jack can barely breathe with it.

It just. It doesn't even make sense, really. You pass out in the woods and zombies take over Britain and some random guy falls on you and attacks you with a pipe. And somehow it turns into this. Eugene's legs hitched up around his waist as Jack presses into him as careful as he can manage when his heart's trying to beat out of his chest. Another kiss that leaves him dizzy, and fingertips digging into his back, urging him to move.

It's a good thing they're kissing, really, because with every thrust Eugene lifts up to meet Jack has the urge to blurt out some incoherent variation of _you feel so good and I like you so much what the fuck_ that doesn't get better with time. Certainly doesn't improve when Eugene reaches down to touch himself and moans into Jack's mouth.

"Oh, God, that's just," and he's only pulled back to get his breath, but tell that to his stupid tongue. "So good. Are you close? I could — I want to—"

"Yeah," Eugene's free hand curls at the back of his neck and Jack can see his other arm speeding up and he needs to remember this moment for the rest of his life because good God. "Want you to, too."

Which is all the permission he needs, it turns out, to bury his face in Eugene's shoulder and press into him a couple desperate times more before he comes. And he hasn't quite worked up the wherewithal to move yet, when he feels Eugene tense under him, the flood of warmth between them.

He's not actually sure which of them the soft, whispered "holy fuck" he hears comes from. But accurate, either way.

Turns out, one of the best parts of having sex in an abandoned holiday cottage during the apocalypse is there's really nothing more to prophylactic disposal than tying off the condom and flinging it into a corner. Though Eugene does give him a look that's much more judgmental than what anyone with come still smeared across their stomach ought to be able to manage.

"Yeah, because putting it in the bin's going to make a world of difference," Jack mutters, passing over the slightly damp towel that he'd left crumpled up next to the sleeping bag earlier, in what now seems like spectacular foresight.

"Still disgusting," Eugene counters, though the smile he's wearing takes most of the bite out of it.

"You're stuck with it now," he doesn't have it in him to do much more than flop down and try not to instantly pass out again, but there is enough energy left to sneak at least one last kiss.

"You say that like it's a recent development," Eugene says, even as he's slinging his arms around Jack's back and leaning in to return the kiss. Ah well, getting the last word was nice while it lasted. And at least it looks like he's not opposed to cuddling, after.

"So, you want to do this again in a couple hours?" he burrows in against Eugene's side, doesn't bother trying to keep his eyes from drooping shut. "Not like we need to make an early start of it or anything."

"If you think about it, it's not like we need to go anywhere tomorrow," fingers walk slow up Jack's spine, making him shiver, and God he is not ready to do this again quite yet. Though a couple hours might be a longer than necessary wait. "We could take a day off?"

"The universe," Jack says around a yawn, "is going to be so pissed at us."

Eugene flicks him on the forehead and grins. "Bring it."


End file.
